The Dark
by Jack E. Peace
Summary: (Told in Elizabeth's POV) Elizabeth's thoughts at Donnie's funeral as she tries to understand what happened and remembers the last time she spoke with her brother.


Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me.

The first thing Aunt Mary said about Donnie was that he was a strange boy. We had all known it, somehow, whether we talked about or admitted it but she was the first person to make us all say 'yeah, we know.' I remember because I was five and that was about the age that you start to remember things and Donnie was only three. But even then, we knew he was going to be weird. It was the first time my parents left us to go out to spend some much needed time away from a talkative five-year-old and a three-year-old that was just the opposite; they left us with Aunt Mary, Mom's sister, for a few hours.

All Aunt Mary needed to proclaim just how weird Donnie Darko was were those few hours. It was during Halloween and we were carving pumpkins; Donnie wouldn't let anyone help him carve his, which he did dutifully, from the time my parents left to when they return, sitting at the kitchen table with a butter knife, surrounded by the gooey insides of his pumpkin. I wanted to see what he was carving, what could possibly be taking so long, but he wouldn't show even me until he had finished completely.

Then he called Aunt Mary into the kitchen and made a big production of turning the carved pumpkin around for us to see. He had carved the face of a rabbit, but not a cuddly rabbit but one with large teeth and round eyes. I guess even then he knew.

"Strange." Aunt Mary said thoughtfully as she studied the carving. "Very strange indeed." She set the pumpkin aside, not letting Donnie put his outside on the stoop with the one I had carved. Donnie didn't understand Aunt Mary's actions and spent the rest of the night in his room.

When my parents returned, Aunt Mary pulled out Donnie's pumpkin and showed them, with me watching from the foyer even though I was supposed to be in bed. "Donnie's such a strange boy." She told them. "Look at this. Strange."

We all knew that, even Donnie, but it was different hearing it from someone else, as though Aunt Mary's words had made it true, like there was no way around it now. I guess things never change, even thirteen years later.

It's weird that the only thing I can think about at my brother's funeral is how everyone thought he was strange. Even he knew and it was something he never denied, not once in his life. And how short it was.

I peek out from beneath the brim of my black hat, worn solely for the fact of keeping the wind from messing with my hair, and study the people that have gathered around. There aren't a lot of them, just my parents and Samantha beside me; Donnie's friends are here too, standing off to the side, staring down at the ground. It doesn't surprise me that there aren't a lot of people here, not a lot of people really knew Donnie like they should have.

What does surprise me, however, is that Donnie's English teacher is in attendance. He talked about her a lot, so I guess it shouldn't be a surprise that she's come to pay her respects.

It doesn't seem right, to be standing here, at my brother's funeral. My sixteen-year-old brother, killed by an engine from a plane no one saw, or will claim. It's as though it never existed, aside from the fact that a piece of it killed Donnie. I wish they'd find the company that made that plane; I'd like to give 'em hell for doing such a great job making sure the plane wouldn't fall apart.

But, at the moment, nothing like that seems important; nothing seems important anymore. Not getting into Harvard, or voting for the next president or even getting out of bed because Donnie will never do any of those things. I'm never going to come downstairs in the middle of the night and find him doing something completely strange, or even normal. We're never going to get into another quarrel and he's never going to call me names again or make fun of the fact that I work at the Yarn Barn.

Thinking of quarrels reminded me of the last conversation I'd ever had with my brother and I took a deep breath, letting it out through clenched teeth. I had been getting ready to go on a date, checking myself over in the mirror when he'd knocked on my door and asked, more politely then he'd ever spoken to me before, if he could come in.

"Make it quick brat." I said. "I've got to go." God, I was such a bitch.

Donnie came into my room and stared down at the floor for a minute; that was when I knew that something important was about to come out of his mouth. Finally, he looked up and studied me for a second. "Elizabeth," he began, his voice heavy. "You'll make a great lawyer someday." Ever since I had decided I was going to be a lawyer when I was seven years old, Donnie had teased me about that fact. He said I could never be a lawyer when I didn't even understand that there were consequences for breaking the law.

"Donnie, what's the matter?" I asked, stepping closer to him. "Are you all right?" I wondered if he had started taking his medication again and was going through some sort of depressive backlash.

He threw his arms around me, an action that surprised me since he had stopped hugging me in the third grade. And Donnie just held me for a minute, as though there was something he wanted to say but could never find the words. When he pulled away, he said, "I'm sorry I said those things to you at dinner."

"It's all right." I assured him, taking his hand and squeezing it in what I hoped was a comforting gesture. "I shouldn't have told Mom and Dad you stopped taking your medication, it's none of my business."

Donnie blinked, waving his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter now." He told me, voice even heavier. He looked at me, silent for a minute. "I love you Elizabeth."

I didn't know how to respond, he had caught me so off guard. "I love you too, Donnie." I assured him. "You sure you're all right?"

Donnie nodded, slowly, as though it took too much energy. "Yeah." He sighed. "Be careful tonight Elizabeth."

And with that, he'd turned and left my room, trudging down the hallway toward his own bedroom. I watched him, suddenly feeling a heavy sadness settle onto my shoulders and I wanted to go after him. I wish I had now, maybe there could have been something that I could have done, something to keep him from being in his bedroom when the engine fell.

I sighed now, feeling that heavy sadness still closed around my heart. I understood now, his strange behavior, because somehow he knew, knew that he was going to die. As crazy as that thought sounds, I don't doubt it anymore, don't doubt that my brother knew that he was never going to see me again.

I only wish that I could have known, because maybe I would have understood better, would have said the right things, maybe found out why. Why he was going to die.

After Donnie died, I went through his backpack, desperate to be close to him just one last time. In one of his notebooks I found a poem he had written, most likely for English class, about the end of the world and how only one person could stop it. Him. About how only he could chase away the monsters that lived in the dark.

I read that poem over and over again, in the hours that I couldn't sleep, barely able to see the words at some points because my eyes were too swollen from the tears I had cried. I hadn't been able to sleep for days after Donnie was killed and only now am I able to close my eyes and no picture my brother.

I sleep with his poem, sometimes on the pillow beside my head, sometimes pressed against my chest. It helps me to understand a little more now.

I also think that his poem can help me sleep again, tucked into bed with the knowledge that my brother will be there to chase away the monsters in the dark.


End file.
